SERVICE 
AND  SACRIFICE 

*  POEMS  ' 


CORINNE  ROOSEVELT  ROBINSON 


SERVICE   AND   SACRIFICE 


SERVICE  AND  SACRIFICE 

POEMS 


BY 

CORINNE  ROOSEVELT  ROBINSON 

AUTHOR  OF 
"THE  CALL  OF  BROTHERHOOD"  AND  "ONE  WOMAN  TO  ANOTHER" 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBXER'S  SONS 
1919 


COPYRIGHT,  1915,  1916,  1917,  1918,  1919,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published  April,  1919 


COPYRIGHT,  1917,  BY  DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  CO. 
COPYRIGHT,  1919,  BY  SMALL.  MAYNARD  &  CO. 

COPYRIGHT,  1916,  1918,  1919,  BY  THE  MCCLURE  PUBLICATIONS.  INC. 
COPYRIGHT,  1917,  BY  THE  FLYING  MAGAZINE  ASSN.,  INC. 

COPYRIGHT,  1915,  BY  ESS  ESS  PUB.  CO. 


THE  8CRIBNER  PRESS 


TO 

THE   MEMORY   OF   MY   BROTHER 
THEODORE  ROOSEVELT 

WHOSE    WATCHWORDS    WERE    COURAGE    AND    SERVICE 

WHOSE    LIFE    WAS    A 
TRUMPET    CALL   TO    LOYALTY    TO    AMERICA 

THIS  BOOK 
IS    GRATEFULLY    DEDICATED 


SAGAMORE 

At  Sagamore  the  Chief  lies  low — 
Above  the  hill  in  circled  row 
The  whirring  airplanes  dip  and  fly, 
A  guard  of  honor  from  the  sky ; — 
Eagles  to  guard  the  Eagle.     Woe 
Is  on  the  world.     The  people  go 
With  listless  footstep,  blind  and  slow; — 
For  one  is  dead — who  shall  not  die — 
At  Sagamore. 

Oh  !     Land  he  loved,  at  last  you  know 
The  son  who  served  you  well  below, 
The  prophet  voice,  the  visioned  eye. 
Hold  him  in  ardent  memory, 
For  one  is  gone — who  shall  not  go — 
From  Sagamore! 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

To  FRANCE 3 

SERVICE 5 

AT  THE  TOMB  OF  LAFAYETTE 6 

SUSPENSE       8 

To  PEACE,  WITH  VICTORY 9 

THANKSGIVING  DAY,  1917 10 

THANKSGIVING,  1918 11 

To  GENERAL  LEONARD  WOOD 12 

CHRISTMAS,  1918 13 

ON  THE  MOHAWK  HILLS 14 

To  ITALY 17 

IN  BED 19 

To  DOROTHY  D 21 

SOLDIER  OF  PAIN 23 

THEODORE  ROOSEVELT 24 

To  MY  BROTHER 26 

ix 


PAGE 

THE  A.  E.  F 28 

VALIANT  FOR  TRUTH 30 

URIEL 32 

THE  LAST  LEAF  IN  SPRING     . 35 

FLIGHT •  .  40 

FROM  A  MOTOR  AT  MIDNIGHT 43 

THE  PATH  THAT  LEADS  NOWHERE 45 

"!F  I  COULD  HOLD  MY  GRIEF" 47 

"THE  WOMAN  SPEAKS" 48 

"WE  WHO  HAVE  LOVED" 49 

LIFE  HURT  ME 50 

THE  OLD  HOUSE 51 

LE  GRAND  DISPARU 52 

THE  PLUS  SIGN 53 

IN  LIGHTER  VEIN 

VERSES  WRITTEN  FOR  THE  OFFICIAL  BENEFIT  FOR 
THE  RELIEF  OF  BELGIAN  WOMEN  AND  CHILDREN, 
DECEMBER  8,  1914. 

MISS  SYBIL  CARLISLE 58 

MR.  WALTER  HAMPDEN 59 

MR.  THOMAS  JEFFERSON 60 

MISS  EDITH  WYNNE  MATTHISON  60 


PAGE 

MISS  VIOLA  ALLEN 61 

MR.   HOLBROOK  BLINN 62 

MRS.   PATRICK  CAMPBELL 62 

MISS  ETHEL  BARRYMORE 63 

MR.   WILLIAM  H.   CRANE 64 

MISS  FRANCES  STARR 64 

MLLE.   DORZIAT 65 

MR.   FRANCIS  WILSON 65 

MISS  JULIE  OPP 66 

MISS  JANE  COWL 66 

MISS  ANNIE  RUSSELL 67 

MR.   HENRY  MILLER 67 

MRS.   SOL  SMITH 68 

MISS  PHYLLIS  NEILSON  TERRY 68 

MR.   WILLIAM  GILLETTE 69 

MME.  ALDA 69 

MR.   WILLIAM  FAVERSHAM 70 

MME.   NAZIMOVA 70 

MR.   EBEN  PLYMPTON 71 

MISS  MARIE  DORO 71 

MESSRS.   WEBER  AND  FIELDS 72 

MISS  ROSE  COGHLAN 72 

MR.   HENRY  DIXEY 73 

MISS  MARGARET  ANGLIN 73 

MISS  MARY  SHAW 74 

MISS  RUTH  CHATTERTON 74 

MISS  BLANCHE  BATES      .                                 ....  75 

MISS  ELLEN  TERRY 75 

XI 


PAGE 

To  JOSEPH  H.  CHOATE      ........  77 

A  NEW  YEAR'S  TOAST  TO  OUR  G.  O.  M.,  JOSEPH 

H.  CHOATE 80 

TO  SOTHERN  AND  MARLOWE 82 

HENDERSON  HOUSE 86 

To  A  BISHOP 92 

THE  POETRY  SOCIETY  ANTHOLOGY     .....  93 

Verses  written  for  the  annual  dinner  of  the  Poetry 
Society  of  America 

EDWARD  J.  WHEELER 95 

MERLE  ST.   CROIX  WRIGHT 97 

JESSIE  B.  RITTENHOUSE 99 

MILES  MENANDER  DAWSON 101 

PADRAIC  COLUM 103 

CHARLES  HANSON  TOWNE 104 

ARTHUR  GUITERMAN 105 

A  PLEA  FOR  THE  "ULTIMATE  CONSUMER"  IN  LITER 
ATURE    .  107 


Xll 


SERVICE    AND    SACRIFICE 


TO    FRANCE 

OCTOBER,  1916 

A  \  7E,  who  have  loved  the  France  of  old, 
The  France  that  gave  us  Lafayette, 
Now  deeper  still  our  poignant  debt, 
And  tenderer  ten  thousandfold. 

Our  youth  has  shed  its  blood  for  you, 
Because  your  valor  wrung  the  heart. 
You,  who  have  borne  so  brave  a  part, 
You  builded  better  than  you  knew. 

If  we  of  alien  race  and  tongue 
Shall  face,  once  more,  the  God  of  War, 
What  you  have  been  and  what  you  are 
Shall  be  the  flame  before  us  flung.— 


Your  gallant  heart  shall  strengthen  ours 
To  reach  unswerving  toward  the  goal, 
Through  you,  perchance,  a  new-born  soul, 
Unrecognized,  within  us  flowers. 

Ah!   France,  who  gave  us  Lafayette 
When  we  were  scarred  as  you  are  now, 
Before  your  wounds  we  humbly  bow, 
And  bless  you  for  our  deeper  debt! 


SERVICE 

APRIL  6,  1917 

IN  terms  of  service,  not  of  sacrifice, 

We  pledge  our  bodies  for  our  souls'  desire, 
Infused  with  flame,  heart-high  with  holy  fire, 
Yet  not  as  martyrs  would  we  pay  the  price. 

Rather  as  lovers,  asking  but  to  give, 

And  giving  only  passion  purified,— 

Craving  one  epitaph— "Behold  here  died 

A  Freeman  who  would  have  his  country  live ! ' 


AT    THE    TOMB    OF    LAFAYETTE 

"TAFAYETTE,  we  are  here!" 

Doffed  helmet,  bowed  head 
Greet  you,  the  great  Dead. 

Were  it  weakness  to  shed 
So  impassioned  a  tear? 

Lafayette,  we  are  here ! 

We  are  here,  Lafayette ! 

Though  we  waited  so  long, 
We  have  come  to  right  wrong, 

Here  are  arms  lithe  and  strong 
That  would  pay  the  old  debt, — 

We  are  here,  Lafayette ! 


6 


Lafayette,  as  we  kneel, 

Can  you  hear  in  your  grave 

That  our  pledge  is  to  save 
Or  to  die — as  the  brave 

Men  of  France  do  reveal 
How  to  die  for  her  weal ! 

Lafayette,  we  are  here! 

Vive  la  France!     She  shall  live — 
For  her  life  we  would  give 

What  you  gave,  and  retrieve 
The  dear  debt — by  your  bier;— 

Lafayette,  we  are  here ! 


SUSPENSE 

BEFORE  THE  AMERICAN  TROOPS  GO 
INTO  ACTION 

MARCH  30,  1918 

A  \  7E  wait  and  hold  our  breath,  for  it  must  come, 
*  ^    The  hour  of  anguish  which  shall  strike  for  all : 
When,  like  a  heavy  and  unyielding  pall, 
We  know  what  we  have  sensed  with  pulses  numb. 
The  measured  march  of  Sorrow  strikes  us  dumb. — 
Imprisoned  by  our  dread,  as  by  a  wall, 
Breathless  we  wait,  and  neither  rise  nor  call, 
Yet  tremble  at  the  echo  of  the  drum. 
Oh !  Spring  that  we  have  loved  and  welcomed  oft, 
When  bursting  buds  acclaimed  the  new-born  year, 
We  shudder  at  the  thought  of   what  you  bring, — 
Each  breeze  that  murmurs  softer  and  more  soft 
Hurries  the  breaking  heart,  the  bitter  tear, — 
Death,  the  Intruder,  tramples  down  the  Spring ! 


TO    PEACE,     WITH    VICTORY 

NOVEMBER  11,  1918 

I  COULD  not  welcome  you,  oh  !  longed-for  peace, 
Unless  your  coming  had  been  heralded 
By  victory.     The  legions  who  have  bled 
Had  elsewise  died  in  vain  for  our  release. 

But  now  that  you  come  sternly,  let  me  kneel 
And  pay  my  tribute  to  the  myriad  dead, 
Who  counted  not  the  blood  that  they  have  shed 
Against  the  goal  their  valor  shall  reveal. 

Ah !  what  had  been  the  shame,  had  all  the  stars 
And  stripes  of  our  brave  flag  drooped  still  unfurled, 
When  the  fair  freedom  of  the  weary  world 
Hung  in  the  balance.     Welcome  then  the  scars! 

Welcome  the  sacrifice  !     With  lifted  head 
Our  nation  greets  dear  Peace  as  honor's  right; 
And  ye  the  Brave,  the  Fallen  in  the  fight, 
Had  ye  not  perished,  then  were  honor  dead! 

9 


THANKSGIVING    DAY,     1917 

TET  us  give  thanks,  and  lift  our  ringing  voices, 
*~^  Though  not  for  plenty,  nor  for  paths  of  peace; 
Let  us  rejoice,  as  a  strong  man  rejoices 
To  run  his  race; — nor  pray  for  swift  release: 
We  who  have  doubted,  dumb  with  indecision, 
Nor  turned  our  faltering  footsteps  toward  the  Right, 
We  who  have  heeded  not  the  surer  vision, 
Let  us  give  thanks — for  we  have  seen  the  light ! 

Let  us  give  thanks  that  once  again,  compelling, 
Our  flag  shall  float  for  Freedom  to  the  skies, 
Ten  thousand  times  ten  thousand  voices  swelling 
Proclaim  our  service  and  our  sacrifice. 
Let  us  give  thanks — an  undivided  nation, 
One  purposed  now,  we  press  toward  the  goal, 
To  Thee,  our  Fathers'  God  and  our  Salvation, 
Let  us  give  thanks — for  we  have  found  our  Soul ! 


10 


THANKSGIVING,     1918 

JET  us  give  thanks,  and  meet  with  head  uplifted 
*^  The  pealing  bells  that  ring  for  righteous  peace; 
Now  that  the  coward  souls  like  sand  are  sifted, 
We,  who  are  purged,  can  welcome  our  release. 

Had  we  not  seen  the  light,  our  honor,  lying 

Like    unsheathed   sword,   had    lost    its    dauntless 
edge, — 

Had  we  not  conquered  death  by  our  own  dying, 
We  had  been  false  to  Freedom's  fairest  pledge. 

But  now  we  kneel,  eyes  lifted  in  thanksgiving 
With  peace  triumphant  deep  within  our  heart, 

W7e,  who  have  failed  nor  fallen  dead,  nor  living, 
Let  us  give  thanks,  for  we  have  borne  our  part ! 


11 


TO'GENERAL    LEONARD    WOOD 

NOVEMBER  11,  1918 

WOUR  vision  keen,  unerring  when  the  blind, 

Who  could  not  see,  turned,  groping,  from  the 
light, 
Your  sentient  knowledge  of  the  wise  and  right 

Have  won  to-day  the  freedom  of  mankind. 
Honor  to  whom  the  honor  be  assigned! 

Mightier  in  exile  than  the  men  whose  might 
Is  of  the  sword  alone,  and  not  of  sight, 

You  march  beside  the  victor  host  aligned. 
Had  not  your  spirit  soared,  our  ardent  youth 

Had  faltered  leaderless;  their  eager  feet, 
Attuned  to  effort  for  the  valiant  truth 

Through  your  command,  swiftly,  rushed  to  compete 
To  hold  on  high  the  torch  of  Liberty— 

Great-visioned  Soul,  yours  is  the  victory ! 


CHRISTMAS,     1918 

ONCE  more  with  Christmas  Eve  comes  "Peace, 
GoodrWill." 

Once  more  the  Christmas  hope  unstifled  springs, 
And  hearts  are  glad  because  it  seems  that  still 
We  hear  the  rustle  of  the  Angels'  wings. 

As,  long  ago,  the  men  who  watched  their  sheep 
Welcomed  the  radiant  messengers  of  light, 

So  we  who  walked  in  darkness,  woke  to  weep,— 
No  longer  dream  of  slaughter  in  the  night. 

Ring  out  oh!  bells  of  Peace,  and  let  your  voice 
Be  the  new  pledge  of  brotherhood  in  truth— 

The  valiant  Dead  would  bid  us  to  rejoice, 

For  this  they  gave  their  ardor  and  their  youth. 

That  all  the  anguish,  all  the  mortal  pain 

Shall  bring  new  vision  to  a  world  once  blind; 

The  booming  guns,  though  silenced,  call  again 
Not  now  to  die,  but  live  for  all  mankind! 


ON    THE    MOHAWK    HILLS 

THE  FOURTH  OF  JULY,  1903 

'""TWICE,  threescore  year  and  ten  have  passed 
*       Since  our  first  Independence  Day, 
But  hearts  still  beat  as  true  and  fast 
And  wheresoe'er  our  lines  are  cast, 

We  gather  in  triumphant  way 
To  celebrate  our  Freedom's  birth 
A  Freedom  echoed  o'er  the  earth. 

The  wind  that  sweeps  these  rolling  hills, 

The  water  in  its  tireless  play 
Of  mirrored  streams  or  rushing  rills 
Whose  ripple  all  the  valley  fills, 

Is  free  to  follow,  free  to  sway,— 
As  we  are  free  whose  fathers  died 
For  Freedom  and  for  countryside. 


14 


Then  let  us  give  our  pledge  that  we 

Are  not  unworthy  of  our  sires, 
But  with  a  sure  intent  to  be 
Both  freely  brave  and  bravely  free 

Shall  cast  behind  our  base  desires 
And  swear  by  all  we  hold  most  dear, 
Our  Country's  call  to  answer  here. 

Our  Country's  call !     It  may  not  come 

As  in  those  stirring  days  of  yore 
With  bugle  note,  and  beat  of  drum 
And  crash  of  arms  mid  terror  dumb, 
And  burning  heart  though  pulses  numb, 

IBut  still  our  Country  calls  each  one 
To  fight  and  serve  like  Washington. 


15 


To  fight  for  truth  and  serve  the  right, 

To  battle  with  a  royal  will, 
To  walk  according  to  our  light, 
Though  rough  the  path  and  dim  the  sight, 

A  soldier,  and  a  conqueror  still, 
As  true  unto  the  Flag  as  he 
Who  led  it  once  to  victory. 

And  as  each  year  sweeps  swiftly  by, 
The  mighty  memories  of  this  day 

Shall  knit  us  with  a  stronger  tie, 

Shall  fit  us  more  to  live  or  die, 
For  Home  and  Country,  to  repay 

The  debt  we  owe  our  Patriot  Dead, 

Our  Freedom's  price — the  blood  they  shed. 


16 


TO     IT  A  L Y 

OCTOBER,  1918 

land  of  dear  desire, 
Where  Beauty  like  a  gleam 
Has  waked  the  hidden  fire 
Of  what  our  souls  would  dream ! 

Where  shining  ilex  glistens, 
And  cypress'  sombre  shade 
Above  dim  fountains  listens 
In  some  forgotten  glade. 

Oh  !  land  of  dear  desire, 
Thy  beauty  floods  again 
My  heart  with  sudden  fire 
And  burns  away  its  pain. 

I  dream  with  Perugino 
On  some  far  Umbrian  hill, 
Or  pray  with  sweet  St.  Francis 
Till  this  world's  fret  is  still. 


17 


Until  my  soul  reposes 
As  once,  unscourged  he  lay, 
Amid  the  thornless  roses 
Until  the  break  of  day. 

Dear  Saint,  who  was  the  brother 
Of  every  living  thing, 
Could  we  to  one  another 
Thy  gracious  message  bring, 

The  world  renewed,  awaking, 
Would   shed   the  shattered,    torn, 
Grim  night  of  its  own  making, 
And  pledge   a  peace  reborn. 

Fair  land  of  dear  desire, 

Thy  beauty  like  a  gleam 

Shall  kindle  and  inspire 

What  all  our  souls  would  dream  ! 


18 


IN    BED 

WRITTEN  FOR  A  BENEFIT  FOR  THE  "ENFANTS  DE  LA  FRONTIERS,"  1917 

WHEN  evening  comes 
And  I'm  in  bed 
And  mother  sits  and  sings 
And  holds  my  hand 
And  strokes  my  head, 
I  think  of  all  the  things 
That  I  have  heard— 
Can  they  be  true?— 
That  children  just  like  me 
Are  cold  and  lost  and  hungry  too 
In  lands  across  the  Sea? 

They  say  they  wander  in  their  fright 
All  dumb  with  cold  and  dread; 
And  when  I  think  of  them  at  night 
I  want  to  hide  my  head 
Upon  my  mother's  gentle  arm 
That  holds  me  close  and  still, 
And  seems  to  promise  that  no  harm 
Can  ever  come,  or  ill. 

19 


And  then  I  hear  my  mother's  voice 

So  tender  in  a  prayer, 

"Dear  God,  may  all  the  girls  and  boys 

Who  wander  'Over  there' 

Be  brought  for  kindly  sheltering 

To  those  who  crave  to  give, 

And  they  who  mourn  shall  learn  to  sing 

And  they  who  die  shall  live." 

And  when  the  prayer  is  done  I  sleep 
So  still  without  a  sound, 
And  dream  no  little  child  shall  weep 
And  all  the  lost  are  found! 


TO     D  O  R  ()  T  II  Y     D  . 

Ox  HEK  FIRST  BIKTHDAY,  JUNE  30,  1JJ17 

TTHIS  is  to  little  Dorothy  D. 
•*•     Granddaughter  mine  so  sweet  is  she, 
Long  ago  a  poet  knew 
A  dear  little  girl  called  Dorothy  Q.; 
But  I  am  convinced  she  could  not  be 
Any  sweeter  than  Dorothy  D. 

Dorothy  Douglas,  may  you  grow 
Into  the  dearest  girl  I  know: 
May  you  be  loyal,  frank  and  true, 
Just  as  your  mother  is;  may  you 
Loving,  joyous,  and  honest  be, 
Like  your  father,  my  Dorothy  D. 


Welcome  into  the  great,  strange  world, 
Now  where  the  dogs  of  war  have  hurled 
Bitter  cries  that  have  stunned  our  ears, — 
Into  this  world  where  no  one  hears 
Echoes  of  that  sweet  peace  we  knew. 
May  your  mother  have  peace  through  you- 

Peace  of  the  heart  that  love  shall  bring, 

Love,  that  conquers  the  bitter  sting 

Of  grief  or  failure  or  suffering. 

Ah!  my  Dorothy,  Dorothy  D., 

Little  bundle  of  joy  to  be, 

We  who  are  grateful  thank  you,  dear, 

For  coming  to  bring  us  love  and  cheer. 


SOLDIER  OF  PAIN 

TO    HER 

\  TOT  in  the  trenches,  torn  by  shot  and  shelling, 

Not  on  the  plain, 
Bombed  by  the  foe;    but  calm  and  unrebelling, 

Soldier  of  Pain  ! 

Facing  each  day,  head  high  with  gallant  laughter, 

Anguish  supreme; 
What  accolade  in  what  divine  hereafter 

Shall  this  redeem? 

Through  the  long  night  of  racked,  recurrent  waking, 

Till  the  long  day, 

Fraught  with  distress,  brings  but  the  same  heart 
breaking 

Front  for  the  fray. 


In  a  far  land  our  Nation's  patriots,  willing, 

Fought,  and  now  lie, — 
But  you — as  brave — a  harder  fate  fulfilling, 

Dare  not  to  die ! 


•23 


THEODORE    ROOSEVELT 
A    WOMAN    SPEAKS    TO    HIS    SISTER 

I   NEVER  clasped  his  hand, 
*     He  never  knew  my  name, 
And  yet  at  his  command, 
I  followed  like  a  flame. 

I  pressed  amid  the  crowd 
To  touch  his  garment's  hem, 

As  one  of  old  once  touched 
The  Man  of  Bethlehem. 

I  was  of  those  who  toil, 

Whose  bread  is  wet  with  tears, 

A  daughter  of  the  soil, 

And  bent,  though  not  with  years. 


His  words  would  lift  the  veil 
That  blurred  my  tired  eyes, 

They  seemed  to  strengthen  me 
To  serve  and  sacrifice. 

And  all  the  values  lost, 

^Yhen  life  was  cold  and  grim, 
Were  clear  and  true  again 

Interpreted  by  him. 

Our  leader  and  our  friend, 

He  knew  what  we  must  bear, 

And  to  the  gallant  end 
He  bade  us  do  and  dare. 

Clad  in  an  armored  truth 
And  by  high  purpose  shod, 

He  gave  us  back  our  youth, 
Our  country,  and  our  God  ! 


TO    MY    BROTHER 

T  LOVED  you  for  your  loving  ways, 
*   The  ways  that  many  did  not  know; 
Although  my  heart  would  beat  and  glow 
When  Nations  crowned  you  with  their  bays. 

I  loved  you  for  the  tender  hand 

That  held  my  own  so  close  and  warm, 

I  loved  you  for  the  winning  charm 

That  brought  gay  sunshine  to  the  land. 

I  loved  you  for  the  heart  that  knew 

The  need  of  every  little  child; 
I  loved  you  when  you  turned  and  smiled, — 

It  was  as  though  a  fresh  wind  blew. 

I  loved  you  for  your  loving  ways, 

The  look  that  leaped  to  meet  my  eye, 

The  ever-ready  sympathy, 

The  generous  ardor  of  your  praise. 


I  loved  you  for  the  buoyant  fun 
That  made  perpetual  holiday 

For  all  who  ever  crossed  your  way, 
The  highest  or  the  humblest  one. 

I  loved  you  for  the  radiant  zest, 

The  thrill  and  glamour  that  you  gave 

To  each  glad  hour  that  we  could  save 
And  garner  from  Time's  grim  behest. 

I  loved  you  for  your  loving  ways, — 
And  just  because  I  loved  them  so, 

And  now  have  lost  them, — thus  I  know 
I  must  go  softly  all  my  days ! 


THE    A  .    E  .    F  . 

To    T.    R. 

FROM  "THE  STARS  AND  STRIPES" 

ONE  is  the  joy, — gone  is  the  thrill  of  returning, 
We  who  had  longed  to   share  with  you  all 

our  laurels, 

To  lay  them  at  the  feet  of  our  great  companion;— 
Hushed  is  rejoicing! 

Never  again  to  see  the  light  from  your  window, 
Shining  across  the  land  that  you  loved  and  in 
spired, — 

"Put  out  the  light,"  you  said,  and  slept;  but  not 
dreaming 

The  darkness  for  others. 


You,  our  leader,  but  more,  our  greatest  companion- 
Near  enough  for  the  spur  of  your  voice  and  your 

hand  grip, 

Ever  ready  to  share,  but  sharing,  still  leading 
Upward  and  onward. 

Listen  !     This  is  our  pledge,  to  fare  and  to  follow, 
Follow7  the  trail  you  blazed,  without  shadow  oi 

turning,— 

We,  who  have  learned  of  you,  shall  not  be  found 
wanting 

Here  or  hereafter ! 


VALIANT    FOR    TRUTH 

"And  so  Valiant  for  Truth  passed  over,  and  all  the  trumpets  sounded 
for  him  on  the  other  side" 

WALIANT  for  Truth  has  gone— Alas  !  that  he  has 
V  left  us, 

Valiant  for  Truth,  the  leader  that  we  love, 
Where  shall  we  find  his  like?     Grim  death,  thou 

hast  bereft  us 
Of  that  great  force  that  lifted  us  above. 

Valiant  for  Truth,  thy  voice  rang  strong,  and  clear, 

and  loudly, 

We  had  not  borne  to  have  its  accents  fail; 
Nor  would  we  choose,  oh !  Knight,  that  thou  shouldst 

go  less  proudly 
Ardent  and  young,  upon  the  last,  long  trail. 


30 


What  though  we  stumble  blindly  over  ways  that 

darken, 

We  are  not  worthy  if  we  do  not  fare 
Forth  to  the  W7est,  where  still  thy  voice  calls  us  to 

hearken- 
Up  to  the  heights,  and  we  shall  meet  thee  there. 

"Valiant  for  Truth  has  come,"  thus  all  the  trumpets 

sounded, 

"Valiant  for  Truth  who  faltered  not,  nor  fell; 
Fearless  he  rode  the  trail,  the  last  long  trail  un 
bounded, 
Rode  to  the  final  goal,  where  all  is  well!" 


31 


URIEL 
II    ESDRAS    IV 

PHEN  Uriel  spake, — the  great  angel,  the  angel  of 

God- 
"  Would  ye  know  then  the  secrets  of  Yaveh,  the 

rule  of  his  rod? 
So,  weigh  me  the  weight  of  the  fire,  the  blast  of  the 

wind 
That  has  left  in  the  wake  of  the  tempest  no  whisper 

behind; 
Or  call  me  the  day  that  has  vanished, — one  hour 

of  the  day, — 
And  I  will  interpret  Jehovah,  His  will  and  His  way  !" 

And  I  answered,  "Oh!  Angel  of  Yaveh,  ye  know 

and  I  know 
That  the  questions  ye  ask  are  a  riddle.     The  gleam 

and  the  glow 
Of  the  flash  of  the  fire  are  fitful,  and  cannot  be 

weighed,— 


And  the  whirl  of  the  cyclone  unmeasured  can  never 

be  stayed, 
And  the  clay  that   is  past — could  we  call   it — then 

Heaven  would  he  here, 
But,  perchance,  we  could  walk,  even  blindly,  were 

the  pathway  more  clear!" 

Then  Uriel  answered,  "I  ask  ye  of  things  ye  have 

known. 
Ye  have  sat  at  the  warmth  of  the  fire;  the  breeze 

that  has  blown 
Has  cooled  ye  when  faint  with  the  summer's  long 

sweep  of  the  sun, 
And  the  day  that  is  past,  ye  have  lived  it,  although 

it  is  done. 
If  ye  cannot  discern,  though  half  hidden,  the  things 

ye  have  seen,— 
Would  ye  look  on   the  veiled  face  of  Yaveh,  His 

might  and  His  mien?" 

And  I  answered  God's    angel   in   sorrow,     '  'Twere 

better  by  far 
That  we  ne'er  had  been  born  to  the  bitter,  blind 

things  that  we  are; 


To  suffer,  and  not  to  know  wherefore,  to  be  but 

the  sport 
Of  Jehovah  who  reads  not  the  riddle  of  all  He  has 

wrought." 

Then,  gently,  the  angel  of  Yaveh  made  answer  to 

me— 
"When  the  flame  of  the  fire  has  vanished,  oh !  what 

do  ye  see, 
The  smoke  that  is  left?     Yea,  the  ashes,  but  fire 

and  flame 
Are  greater  than  smoke  or  than  ashes.     The  clouds 

are  the  same — 
They  pass  to  the  earth  in  the  shower,  the  drops 

shall  remain, 
But  greater  than  drops  and  unending  the  rush  of 

the  rain. 
What  has  been  is  but  drops  and  but  ashes  to  the 

more  still  to  be, 
For   the   ways    of   Jehovah    are    wondrous.     Wait, 

mortal,  and  see!" 


34 


THE      LAST     LEAF     IN     SPRING 

\A/HY  am  I  here? 

*  *     I,  who  belonged  to  that  dread  season  drear, 
When,  wet  and  cold, 

November  rains  did  change  to  formless  mould 
My  comrades,  and  did  sweep 
Them  all  to  their  last  sleep, 
But  I- 

I  was  passed  by. 

Even  the  storm  that  wild  Autumnal  night, 
When  winds,  tornado-like,  rushed  by  in  might, 
And  carried  my  companions  on  their  breast,— 
Left  me  at  rest. 

I  had  been  happier  far  with  them  to  fly 
Fiercely  dissolved,  against  an  avenging  sky- 
Riding  Death's  ride  upon  the  sounding  gale,— 
Than,  wan  and  pale, 
Against  this  branch  to  cling, 
And  wait  a  new-born  Spring ! 


35 


I  have  no  place 

Where  buds  do  bloom  apace. 

One  near  me  now 

Burst  into  adolescence, 

How,  ah !  how  ? 

Her  fragrant  scents 

With  youth's  impertinence 

Importune  me  to  know  why  I  still  hold 

The  branch,  with  tendrils  cold — 

"Why,"  they  would  ask  of  me,  "have  you  survived? 

Your  brothers  were  short-lived 

And  went  their  way, 

Why  did  you  stay?" 

And  I 

Can  but  reply, 

A  monk  at  heart, 

As  though  apart,  unshrived, 

"I  know  not — nay — I  only  know 

I  would  not  have  it  so." 

And  yet,  and  yet 

Perchance  'tis  not  so  sad 

To  see  the  earth  once  more,  reborn  and  glad. — 

I  cannot  feel  it — not  one  hollow  vein 


Can  nature's  sap  retain; 

But  I  can  see 

The  mystery  of  bloom,  on  bud  and  tree, 

Can  hear  new  leaves 

Murmur  within  their  shoots  of  days  to  come, 

Can  almost  hear  the  hum 

Of  some  precocious  and  marauding  bee 

Around  the  roots 

Of  flowers  it  may  not  see.— 

And  even  I— 

A  skeleton  indeed  at  such  a  feast, 
For  one  brief  moment 
From  my  fate  released, 
Can  chant  my  threnody- 
Can  lift  my  voice 
And  in  the  thought  rejoice, 
As  one  who,  living  still,  though  out  of  time, 
Has  heard  again  the  rhythm  and  the  rhyme 
Of  Earth's  renewal.     The  sublime 
Recurrence  of  the  beauty  of  the  days 
Born  but  to  praise, 
When,  long  and  sweet  and  slow, 
The  hours  linger  and  the  flowers  grow. 


37 


All  me  !     Ah  me  ! 

I  strive  to  think 

I  am  content  to  see, 

And  not  to  feel.— 

It  is  not  true, 

I  long  to  revel  in  the  Heaven's  blue, 

I  long  to  dance 

And  waver  gayly  in  the  wooing  breeze 

Balanced  at  ease, 

Sure  of  my  strength  to  brave  its  harmonies 

With  no  mischance. 

I  long  for  mad 

Sweet  ecstasy,  when  all  the  world  is  glad — 

I  strain  to  thrill 

When  robins  trill 

The  song  of  passion  to  their  waiting  mate; 

But  no,  my  fate 

Is  otherwise. 

Come  Wind,  arise— 

Blow,  feigning  Autumn, 

Blow,  as  though  the  world 

In  cold  November's  fog  and  mist  were  furled, 

Blow  fiercely — till  upon  the  new  grass  hurled, 


38 


I  lie,  a  shattered  thing 

That  none  regret: 

I  had  no  right 

To  that  stupendous  sight— 

The  promise  and  the  pageant  of  the  Spring. 

And  yet —  !  and  yet —  ! 

Hurried  to  Earth  at  last 

Upon  the  April  blast 

I  would  not  quite  forget! 


39 


FLIGHT 

|  HAVE  followed  the  flush  of  the  morn 

*   To  the  heart  of  the  sun. 

Aurora,  the  spirit  of  Dawn, 

Ere  the  day  has  begun, 

Has  winnowed  the  way  of  the  wind 

For  the  beat  of  my  wings, 

Above  the  dim  haunts  of  mankind 

To  the  essence  of  things. 

Apollo  awaits  me  afar 

With  his  horses  in-reined, 

As  I  float  with  the  faint  morning  star 

Where  the  ether  is  stained. 

By  the  crimson  that  flares  as  he  sweep? 

Down  the  fire-touched  mist, 

As  his  chariot  wavers  and  leaps 

From  the  heights  amethyst. 


40 


I  swing  in  the  nebulous  space 

Till  I  welcome  the  shroud 

Of  night; — and  the  stars  in  their  race 

Are  singing  aloud, 

They  chant  of  the  past, — of  the  days 

When  the  song  of  the  spheres, 

The  rhythm  of  prayer  and  of  praise 

Knew  no  mortal  ears. 

Orion  has  thrown  me  his  belt 

As  a  life-line  of  light, 

The  Pleiades  shimmer  and  melt 

As  a  lure  to  my  sight,— 

Arcturus  points  up  to  the  crown, 

To  the  crown  I  have  won— 

I  am  morning  and  night,  I  have  mown 

My  path  to  the  sun. 


41 


Must  I  fall  from  the  kingdom  of  air 

To  the  bondage  of  earth, 

Man  calls  me  his  shackles  to  bear, 

For  'twas  he  gave  me  birth. 

His  vision  has  buoyed  my  flight, 

Has  given  me  grace 

To  conquer  the  dawn  and  the  night, 

And  the  infinite  space.    • 

Man-made,  I  have  pierced  the  wide  blue 

Of  the  heavens  on  high, 

Nor  Hermes,  winged  God,  as  he  flew 

Were  freer  than  I — 

Man-made,  as  a  God,  lo !  I  dare 

Olympus  to  span — 

I  am  kin  to  the  uttermost  air, 

Yet  the  daughter  of  Man ! 


FROM  A   MOTOR   AT   MIDNIGHT 

!  the  strange  wild  thrill  of  a  motor  flight 
In  the  still,  clear  cold  of  an  Autumn  night, 
When  led  by  the  lure  of  the  straight  white  road 
The  car  leaps  loose  to  the  engine's  goad, 
And  the  front  lamps  shine  down  the  distant  track 
And  the  small  red  point  at  the  motor's  back 
Sends  a  crimson  glow  on  the  quick-left  trail 
Like  Antares'  eye  in  the  scorpion's  tail.— 
How  the  brain  responds  to  the  pulsing  throb, 
And  the  soul  replies  to  the  wind's  faint  sob 
As  it  meets  the  branch  for  a  cool  embrace 
Of  the  Autumn  trees  in  their  leafless  lace. 
I  look  straight  up  in  the  wide-lit  skies 
And  I  know  that  the  vaulted  depth  replies, 
For  it  bids  me  join  in  the  planets'  race 
While  it  offers  the  prize  of  a  stellar  place- 
Till  I  dream  that  Auriga,  charioteer, 
Is  at  the  wheel,  and  the  whirling  sphere 


43 


Answers  my  dream  as  I  meet  the  stars. — 

Orion's  belt,  with  its  golden  bars, 

Is  in  my  grasp;  and  a  hunting-song 

Echoes  the  meadow  road  along, 

Borne  on  the  breath  of  the  midnight  breeze 

Chanted  by  distant  Pleiades. — 

The  hill  sweeps  low  as  we  skirt  the  stream 

Where,  upside  down,  with  a  laughing  gleam 

The  dipper  flings  from  the  milky  way 

A  frothing  spoonful  of  yellow  spray. — 

And  air  and  water,  and  earth  and  sky 

Call  out  "Good  Speed"  to  us  rushing  by— 

We  are  one  with  the  spaces,  and  one  with  the  dark, 

Alive  as  the  flash  of  electric  spark, 

In  tune  with  nature,  at  one  with  man, 

Who  has  made  us  part  of  the  cosmic  plan — 

By  the  child  of  his  brain,  which  he  curbs  and  reins, 

Or  hurls  headlong  through  the  midnight  plains — 

Oh !  the  strange,  wild  thrill  of  a  motor  flight 

In  the  still,  clear  cold  of  an  Autumn  night ! 


44 


THE  PATH  THAT  LEADS 
NOWHERE 

HTHERE'S  a  path  that  leads  to  Nowhere 

*     In  a  meadow  that  I  know, 
Where  an  inland  island  rises 

And  the  stream  is  still  and  slow; 
There  it  wanders  under  willows, 

And  beneath  the  silver  green 
Of  the  birches'  silent  shadows 

Where  the  early  violets  lean. 

Other  pathways  lead  to  Somewhere, 

But  the  one  I  love  so  well 
Has  no  end  and  no  beginning — 

Just  the  beauty  of  the  dell, 
Just  the  wind-flowers  and  the  lilies 

Yellow-striped  as  adder's  tongue, 
Seem  to  satisfy  my  pathway 

As  it  winds  their  scents  among. 


45 


There  I  go  to  meet  the  Springtime, 

When  the  meadow  is  aglow, 
Marigolds  amid  the  marshes,— 

And  the  stream  is  still  and  slow. 
There  I  find  my  fair  oasis, 

And  with  care-free  feet  I  tread 
For  the  pathway  leads  to  Nowhere, 

And  the  blue  is  overhead ! 

All  the  ways  that  lead  to  Somewhere 

Echo  with  the  hurrying  feet 
Of  the  Struggling  and  the  Striving, 

But  the  way  I  find  so  sweet 
Bids  me  dream  and  bids  me  linger, 

Joy  and  Beauty  are  its  goal,— 
On  the  path  that  leads  to  Nowhere 

I  have  sometimes  found  my  soul ! 


46 


"IF   I   COULD   HOLD   MY   GRIEF" 

IF  I  could  hold  my  grief  in  calm  control, 

*     And  look  its  blinding  terror  in  the  face; 

If  I  could  welcome  it  to  its  own  place 

Deep  in  my  heart;  if  I  could  sweep  the  whole 

Of  this  fierce  pain,  that  seems  to  drown  my  soul, 

Into  my  being  like  a  firm  embrace, 

And  let  it  with  my  life's  stream  interlace,— 

Then  Grief  and  I,  perchance,  might  win  the  Goal. 

But  if  I  shrink,  with  dim,  averted  eyes, 

Craving  to  hurry  through  the  restless  days, 

Seeking  escape, — a  wrounded  creature,  blind, — 

Then  all  my  deeper  self,  that  hidden  lies, 

In  vain  shall  strive  to  lead  me  in  the  ways 

That  Grief  would  teach  my  lagging  feet  to  find. 


47 


'THE    WOMAN    SPEAKS" 

IV  AY  would-be  Lover,  wait — believe  me,  this 
*  *  *  Perchance  shall  prove,  of  all,  the  fairest  hour; 
When  I  have  felt  your  arms'  compelling  power, 
When  I  have  known  the  rapture  of  your  kiss, 
Life  may  not  hold  again  such  tranquil  bliss- 
Eternal  forfeit !     Friendship's  perfect  flower 
Withers  before  the  Sun-God's  golden  dower, 
Will  you  not  grant  me,  now,  an  armistice? 
Let  us  call  loyal  truce  that  we  may  steep 
The  mind  and  heart  and  soul  in  this  rich  sense 
Of  full  communion. — Faith,  serene  and  deep, 
Shall  hold  our  passion  to  an  innocence 
Of  spirit  union —      Wait, — and  let  Love  sleep 
Before  the  blinding  harvest  he  shall  reap. 


48 


"WE     WHO    HAVE     LOVED" 

A  X  7E  who  have  loved,  alas !  may  not  be  friends, 
*  *     Too  faint,  or  yet  too  fierce,  the  stifled  fire, — 
A  random  spark — and  lo  !  our  dead  desire 
Leaps  into  flame,  as  though  to  make  amends 
For  chill,  blank  days,  and  with  strange  fury  rends 
The  dying  embers  of  Love's  funeral  pyre. 
Electric,  charged  anew,  the  living  wire 
A  burning  message  through  our  torpor  sends. 
Could  we  but  pledge,  with  loyal  hearts  and  eyes, 
A  friendship  worthy  of  the  fair,  full  past, 
Now  mutilate,  and  lost  beyond  recall, 
Then  might  a  Phoenix  from  its  ashes  rise 
Fit  for  a  soul-flight;  but  we  find,  aghast, 
Love  must  be  nothing  if  not  all  in  all ! 


49 


LIFE     HURT    ME 

TIFE  hurt  me— 

*-^  But  I  welcomed  even  pain- 
So  keen  I  was  the  full  deep  cup  to  drain, 
I  courted  all  the  clamor  and  the  strife, 
The  grief,  the  joy — I  was  in  love  with  life. 

Death  hurt  me — 

But  I  wept  and  bowed  my  head 

To  learn  the  lesson  Christ  interpreted. 

With  dear  Love's  help  I  raised  my  anguished  eyes 

And  thought  I  read  the  message  of  the  skies. 

And  then  Love  hurt  me— 

And  I  lost  the  whole 

Of  faith   and  peace.     "Ah!"   cried   my   struggling 

soul, 

"If  Love  can  fail  its  own,  why  live?"  it  said — 
And  lo !  still-born,  I  found  my  soul  was  dead ! 


50 


THE    OLD    HOUSE 

THE  old  House  on  the  Hill 
Has  harbored  many  a  fire,- 
Keen  heart  and  young  desire,— 
All  silent  now  and  still ! 

The  old  House  on  the  Hill 
Behind  its  sheltering  walls 
Held  Joy  that  Hope  recalls 
And  Love  that  hearts  fulfil. 

The  old  House  on  the  Hill 
Surmounts  the  flying  years, 
Fit  frame  for  smiles,  or  tears, 
Strong  shield  for  good  or  ill. 

The  old  House  on  the  Hill 
Still  harbors  many  a  fire,— 
New  lives,  but  old  desire- 
Soon  silent,  too,  and  still ! 


51 


LE    GRAND    DISPARU 


ON  the  far  hill,  where  all  your  people  love  you 
Silent  you  lie, 

'Neath  the  Scotch  cross  that  rises  there  above  you 
Under  the  sky. 


Stanch  as  its  stone,  the  hand  you  held  out  gladly, 

To  meet  the  need 
Of  those  who  turned  to  you;  who  now  greet  sadly 

What  was  decreed. 

Deep  in  your  heart's  far  innermost  recesses, 

You  held  your  Own,— 
Scorning  all  lighter  loves  and  their  caresses— 

You  gave  alone 

All  that  you  had — and  it  was  worth  the  keeping— 

To  those  who  bore 
Your  honored  name.     Ah !  may  you  now  be  reaping 

That  love — and  more! 


THE     PLUS     SIGN 

CHRIST    SPEAKS  FROM    A    CRUCIFIX 
IX    BRITTANY 

MY  people,  oh  !    my  people,  pass  not  by, 
Or  passing,  turn  again  and  look,  for  lo  ! 
The  shadow  of  my  rough  hewn  cross  and  me 

Hangs  in  the  waning  West,  a  great  Plus  Sign, 
And  bids  you  add  us,  add  my  cross  and  me, 

To  every  joy  and  every  pain  of  yours. 
My  arms  outstretched,  my  weary  head  and  feet 

Nailed  to  the  rugged  cross  are  like  the  sign 
The  little  children  make  to  show  that  more, 

And  even  more  shall  still  be  added  to 
The  teacher's  task  until  it  all  is  done:— 

And  so,  my  people,  look,  and  looking,  learn— 
For  I  would  bid  you  add  my  cross  and  me 

To  make  the  fulness  of  the  final  sum,— 
The  great  Plus  Sign  of  pain  and  penitence, — 

My  cross  and  I  are  penitence  and  pain, 
The  great  Plus  Sign  of  joy  and  sacrifice,— 


My  cross  and  I  are  sacrifice  and  joy, 
The  great  Plus  Sign  of  service  and  of  love, — 

For  we  are  service,  and,  above  all,  love. 
My  cross  and  I  are  love  in  everything, 

For  love  is  pain,  and  love  is  penitence, 
And  love  is  service,  joy  and  sacrifice. 

Then  pass  not  by,  my  people,  turn  and  look; 
The  great  Plus  Sign  is  fading  in  the  West 

Above  a  weary  and  a  waiting  world. 
Before  the  shadow  of  my  crucifix 

Is  lost  in  murky  mist  of  setting  sun, 
Take  it,  and  add  it  unto  every  day's 

Appointed  task,  and  let  the  great  Plus  Sign 
Enrich  your  spirit  with  its  priceless  boon 

Of  pain  and  joy  and  love  and  sacrifice, 
The  sum  of  all  that  means  my  cross  and  me. 

My  people,  oh  !  my  people,  turn  and  look, 
The  great  Plus  Sign  is  waning  in  the  West. 


54 


IN    LIGHTER    VEIN 


VERSES  WRITTEN  FOR  THE  OFFICIAL  BENEFIT  FOR  THE  RELIEF 
OF  BELGIAN  WOMEN  AND  CHILDREN,  DECEMBER  8,  1914, 
STRAND  THEATRE,  NEW  YORK,  TO  INTRODUCE  THE  DIS 
TINGUISHED  ACTORS  AND  ACTRESSES  WHO  GAVE  THEIR 
SERVICES 

READ    BY 

COMEDY  AND  TRAGEDY 


MISS    SYBIL    CARLISLE 

As  Comedy 

[  AM  the  Comic  Muse, 

Soft  as  the  summer  rain, 
Come  the  children  I  bear 
Out  of  the  breath  of  my  brain; 
Love, — and  Laughter  that  lifts, 
Joy  with  the  lilt  of  a  song, 
Beauty  that's  born  of  praise, 
And  Faith  that  has  righted  wrong. 
I  am  the  heart  of  a  child, 
I  am  the  trust  of  a  maid, 
Spirit  and  passion  of  man, 
Love  that  is  unbetrayed; 
I  am  the  Muse  that  smiles, 
Lo !  and  gladness  is  rife, 
Comedy,  I  am  called, 
I  am  the  mirror  of  Life. 


MR.    WALTER    HAMPDEN 

As  Tragedy 

I  am  the  Tragic  Muse; 
Born  of  the  web  of  my  brain, 
Lo !  my  children  shall  pass, 
Poverty,  Pathos,  and  Pain; 
Labor, — and  Love  forsworn, 
Each  in  their  turn  I  name. 
Jealousy,  evil  born 
Sorrow,  and  Sin  and  Shame. 
I  am  the  World's  despair, 
I  am  the  heart's  despite, 
Woven  of  me  is  fear, 
Shadow  of  mine  is  night; 
I  am  the  Muse  that  weeps, 
Out  of  my  grief  is  Strife, 
Tragedy,  I  am  called, 
I  am  the  mirror  of  Life ! 


59 


MR.    THOMAS    JEFFERSON 

As  "Rip  Van  Winkle" 

His  wondrous  art  revives  in  you, 
Oh !  gifted  son  of  gifted  sire, 
And  Rip  Van  Winkle  strikes  anew, 
The  spark  that  leaped  in  flame  to  fire; 
The  Jefferson  who  joyed  our  youth 
Reborn,  is  here  in  very  truth. 


MISS    EDITH    WYNNE    MATTHISON 

As  "Everyman" 

Could  "Everyman"  and  every  woman  too, 
But  hear  your  voice  as  we  were  wont  to  do, 
In  deep  rich  tones  invoking  prayer  or  praise, 
Then  Every  Man  were  better  all  his  days. 


60 


MISS    VIOLA    ALLEN 

As  Hermione,  in  "A  Winter's  Talc"' 

Hermione,  thine  was  a  "Winter's  Tale," 

Chill  winds  of  foul  suspicion  did  prevail, 

Thou,  ever  blameless, 

Overborne  by  blame, 

Thou,  never  shameless, 

Crucified  by  shame. 

Hermione,  we  weep  thy  hapless  fate, 

So  swiftly  sentenced, 

Justified  so  late ! 


01 


MR.    HOLBROOK    BLINN 

As  Jack  Marbury,  in  "Salomy  Jane" 

Have  you  heard  of  Jack  Marbury,  he  from  the  West  ? 

He's  a  terror  at  cards— 

But  his  heart  is  the  best. 

Oh!  the  maids  he  caressed, 

And  the  sins  he  confessed. 

But  he's  white  just  the  same 

For  he'll  take  all  the  blame,— 

Have  you  heard  of  Jack  Marbury.  he  from  the  West  ? 


MRS.    PATRICK    CAMPBELL 

As  Melisande,  in  " Pelleas  and  Melisande" 

Creator  by  your  rare  impersonation 
Of  Melisande,  a  Master's  fine  creation, 
At  your  seductive  charm,  we  cry  again, 
"May  God  have  pity  on  the  hearts  of  men." 


MISS    ETHEL    BARRYMORE 

As  Mme.  Trenioni,  in  "Captain  Jinks" 

Our  Ethel  Barry  more, 

Queen  of  Queens 

In  Captain  Jinks  of  the  Horse  Marines, 

Has  made  us  thrill  as  she  laughs  and  leans, 

To  the  Captain  in  the  army. 

For  she  is  a  Siren  through  and  through, 

And  she  calls  to  me  and  she  calls  to  you, 

That  is  the  way  that  Sirens  do, 

To  the  Captains  in  Life's  Army. 


MR.    WILLIAM    H.    CRANE 

.4s  "David  Harum" 

Dear  David  Harum,  your  quaint  wisdom  comes 
Fresh  from  the  land  we  love  to  call  our  own. 
It  is  the  bird  that  sings,  the  bee  that  hums, 
The  wind  that  blows  across  a  grove  o'ergrown; 
In  him  who  voices  you,  you  live  again, 
We  know  not  which  is  Harum,— 
Which  is  Crane! 


MISS    FRANCES    STARR 

As  Juanita,  in  "  The  Rose  of  the  Rancho" 

Rose  of  the  Rancho, 
Flower-like  you  are, 
A  rose  indeed, 
But — even  more,  a  Starr  ! 


64 


M  L  L  E  .     D  O  R  Z  I  A  T 

As  Countess  Marina,  in  "  The  Hawk'' 

There  is  a  land  of  language  exquisite, 
Where  every  word  may  to  the  gesture  fit, 
A  tongue  that's  fashioned  for  divine  finesse, 
Each  syllable  a  song  or  a  caress, 
From  that  fair  land  we  have  with  us  to-night, 
Mile.  Dorziat  for  our  delight. 


MR.    FRANCIS    WILSON 

As  Cadeaux,  in  "  Erminie" 

Come  listen  to  the  ''Dickey  Bird," 
The  gayest  song  you  ever  heard, 
Sung  by  a  tramp  as  fresh  and  gay 
As  ever  wandered  by  the  way- 
Incorrigible,  fickle,  fond, 
The  first  "Beloved  Vagabond." 


MISS    JULIE    OFF 

As  Portia,  in  "Julius  Caesar" 


Thou,  who  with  fine  and  fair  nobility, 
Didst  make  to  Brutus  all  thy  wife-hood's  plea, 
Fair  Portia,  mind  of  man,  and  heart  of  woman, 
Teach  us  to  rise  above  the  faulty  human. 


MISS    JANE    COWL 

As  Mary  Turner,  in  "Within  the  Law" 

Protest  supreme  against  the  Law's  lost  soul, 
Your  fine  presentment  would  lay  bare  the  whole 
Of  tangled  lack  of  justice,  till  in  awe, 
We  shudder  at  Life's  wreck,  "Within  the  Law." 


66 


MISS    ANNIE    RUSSELL 

As  Kate  Hardcastle,  in  "She  Stoops  to  Conquer" 

"She  stoops  to  conquer," 
But  a  xtar  in  falling, 
Brings  a  new  gleam  on  earth, 
A  heaven  recalling. 


M  R  .    HENRY    MILLER 

As  Sidney  Carton,  in  "  The  Only  Way" 

When  Sidney  Carton  in  the  twice-told  tale 
Would  have  us  weeping,  or  perchance  turn  pale, 
The  price  of  such  sweet  pain  we  gladly  pay 
Is  it  not  Henry  Miller's  ''Only  Way"? 


67 


MRS.    SOL    SMITH 

As  the  Nurse,  in  "Romeo  and  Juliet" 

The  kindest  nurse  that  e'er,  young  lovers  true. 
Watched  over  and  protected,  would  that  you 
In  future  eons  may  that  part  rehearse, 
Which  gave  fair  Juliet  so  beloved  a  nurse. 


MISS    PHYLLIS    NEILSON    TERRY 

As  Viola,  in  "Twelfth  Night" 

Fair  Viola,  whose  double  part 
Of  maid  and  youth,  turned  Cupid's  dart 
To  many  a  prank,  this  maid  who  plays  you 
In  her  own  person  half  betrays  you; 
For  gifted  forebears  lent  their  flame 
To  her  who  bears  their  double  name. 


68 


MR.     WILLIAM     GILLETTE 

An  "Sherlock  Holmes'" 

Subtle,  sincere,  illumining,  illusive, 

Convincing,  captivating,  and  delusive, 

You  who  can  thrill  until  we  hold  our  breath, 

And  hang  suspended  as  'twixt  life  and  death— 

Who  are  you  then,  but  one  of  two? — and  yet 

You  must  be  Sherlock  Holmes — 

You  are  Gillette! 


M  M  E  .    A  L  D  A 

Now  music  unto  Drama  lends  her  spell 
The  nightingale  doth  sing,  and  all  is  well 


69 


MR.    WILLIAM    FAVERSHAM 

As  I  ago,  in  "Othello" 

lago, — sinister,  unhappy  role, 

The  Bard  with  swift  unswerving  instrument 

Portrays  the  pit  for  every  human  soul 

That  is  not  with  a  purer  purpose  blent. 

Degraded  man ! 

Supreme  indeed  the  art 

Of  one  who  may  interpret  such  a  part. 


MME.    NAZI  M  OVA 

As  "Hedda  Gabler" 

Nazimova,  none  but  your  potent  gift, 
Could  Ibsen's  Hedda  to  perfection  lift, 
Half  woman,  and  half  serpent,  wholly  vile, 
Yet  Hedda  in  your  person  doth  beguile. 


70 


MR.    EBEN    PLYMPTON 

As  Mercntio,  in  "Romeo  and  Juliet" 

Mercutio,  synonym  for  loyal  friend, 

Who  would  not  envy  thee,  thy  gallant  end? 


MISS    MARIE    DORO 

As  "Oliver  Twst" 

You,  Marie  Doro,  do  for  us  restore 
Poor  little  Oliver  who  "wanted  more." 
Plaintive,  pathetic  youth  foregone  and  missed, 
Oh !  sad  anomaly,  a  child  unkissed ! 


71 


MESSRS.    WEBER    AND    FIELDS 

Two  names  that  seem  to  all  of  us  but  one, 

What  memories  arise  of  happy  fun ! 

Two  names  we  hold  together  in  the  heart; 

Twice  "Welcome  Home"  when  they  are  not  apart, 

For  neither  to  the  other  glory  yields, 

Immortal  Weber ! 

And  immortal  Fields ! 


MISS    ROSE    COGHLAN 

As  Lady  Gay  Spanker,  in  "London  Assurance" 

Did  ye  ken  our  Rose  as  the  Lady  Gay, 
Have  ye  heard  her  tell  how  she  rode  away, 
To  the  crack  of  the  whip  at  the  break  of  day, 
With  the  horse  and  the  hounds  in  the  morning? 
Oh !  the  sound  of  the  horn  on  the  echoing  hill, 
And  the  cry  of  the  pack  as  they  ran  at  will, 
And  our  dear  Lady  Gay, — I  can  hear  her  still, 
As  she  told  of  the  hunt  in  the  morning. 


MR.    HENRY    DIXEY 

As  "Adonis" 

When  Dixey  in  Adonis  plays, 

All  hearts  would  sing  their  lightest  lays, 

For  who  could  frown  or  who  would  sigh, 

Or  feel  the  world  had  gone  awry — 

When,  luring  us  to  happy  ways, 

Our  Dixey  in  Adonis  plays ! 


MISS    MARGARET    AN G LIN 

As  Katharine,  in  "  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew" 

Who  would  not  try  to  tame  a  shrew, 
If  she  were  fair  and  gay  like  you, 
Seductive,  fierce,  but  heart  entangling, 
This  Katharine,  is  Margaret  Anglin. 


73 


MISS    MARY    SHAW 

As  Mrs.  Airing,  in  Ibsen's  "Ghosts'" 

Heredity,  the  spectre  of  the  past, 

Ghost  of  the  present, 

Claims  its  own  at  last; 

Ghosts  of  the  future, 

Lo !  the  child  unborn 

Yields  its  fair  birthright 

To  a  fate  forlorn. 


MISS    RUTH    CHATTERTON 

As  Judy,  in  "Daddy  Long-Legs" 

Of  all  the  stars  in  this  fair  firmament, 
Where  magnitude  and  brilliancy  are  blent; 
The  latest,  newest,  youngest  of  them  all, 
But  singing  from  the  heights  a  clear  sweet  call; 
Ruth — 'tis  the  truth — as  Judy,  that  you  are 
Shedding  the  light  of  art,  a  very  star. 


74 


MISS    BLANCHE    BATES 

As  "Madame  Butterfly" 

Creator,  of  a  smile,  a  sigh— 
You  gave  us  Madame  Butterfly. 

MISS    ELLEN    TERRY 

As  Portia,  in  "Merchant  of  Venice" 

And  now  the  climax  of  it  all, 
We  yield  to  a  familiar  thrall. 
Here's  Portia,  here  fair  Rosalind, 
Gay  Beatrice,  and  Kate  unkind; 
Olivia  whose  tender  folly 
Immortalized  a  sprig  of  holly— 
Ah  !  be  they  sad  or  sweet,  or  merry. 
All,  all  are  you,  dear  Ellen  Terry ! 

FINIS 


75 


TO    JOSEPH    H.    CHOATE 

FEBRUARY  18,  1913 
A     LENTEN    TOAST    TO     "ALL    SAINTS 

I  AST  Friday  night  St.  Valentine 

*-*  Was  pledged  in  many  a  bowl  of  wine, 

Our  Patron  Saint  is  now  before  us, 

So  join  with  me  in  grateful  chorus, 

St.  Joseph,  reverenced,  and  dear, 

We  pledge  you  life,  and  love,  and  cheer! 

We  cannot  but  rejoice  that  you 

The  habits  of  Jerome  eschew; 

It  is  not  needful  in  the  least 

To  wander  always  with  a  beast, 

Especially  if,  like  St.  Joe, 

One  is  the  "sure  enough"  whole  show! 

No  lion  can  compete  with  him, 

For  Lion  is  his  synonym ! 


77 


Unlike  Sebastian,  you  are  free 

From  darts  that  pierce  excessively — 

And,  here  again,  the  reason  why 

Is  evident  to  any  eye,— 

Your  darts  are  always  flung  before 

Another's  sting  your  wit  can  floor, 

And  so,  unscathed,  you  bare  your  breast 

Secure  that  e'en  the  sharpest  jest 

Though  aimed  with  skill,  could  never  carry 

Against  your  "rapid  fire"  parry. — 

Another  Saint  forever  sits 
Upon  an  iron  base  that  fits 
Above  a  slowly  burning  fire, 
A  horrid  scheme,  both  dread  and  dire. — 
St.  Lawrence, — Joseph  goes  one  better, 
No  fire  could  his  spirit  fetter, 
For  he,  himself,  so  full  of  fire, 
Would  conquer  any  funeral  pyre, 
And,  Phoenix-like,  would  put  to  shame 
The  fate  that  tried  to  quench  his  flame. 
In  fact,  his  friends  have  always  boasted, 
He  is  the  roaster,  not  the  roasted! 


78 


Now  last — not  least — we  come  to  her, 

Where  Worshipped  turns  to  Worshipper, 

For  while  we  kneel  at  Joseph's  shrine, 

He  kneels  before  St.  Caroline, 

And,  thus,  in  him  we  honor  too 

His  loyal  lady,  liege  and  true, 

And  so,  once  more,  lift  high  the  bowl, 

To  pledge  twin  Saints,  with  heart  and  soul ! 


79 


A  NEW  YEAR'S  TOAST  TO  OUR  G.  O.  M., 
JOSEPH  H.  CHOATE 

JANUARY  5,  1917 

CILL  high  the  glass— a  New  Year's  Toast ! 

*"      To  one  who  is  our  city's  boast — 

Of  all  her  jewels,  quite  the  Gem — 

Here's  to  our  charming  G.  O.  M. ! 

The  G.  O.  M.  that  England  knew 

Was  grand  and  wise  and  manly  too, 

And  strong  and  powerful,  but  he 

Could  never,  never,  never  be 

What  our  dear  G.  O.  M.  to  us 

Has  come  to  mean,  for  good  or  "wuss" 

(That  rhyme  is  quite  ridiculous !) — 

With  rapier  wit  and  tender  heart, 

On  every  side  he  bears  his  part, — 

With  literature  and  politics 

He  doth  a  social  glamour  mix, 

Past  master  of  diplomacy 

An  adept  in  Philanthropy — 

Who  would  not  drink  a  New  Year's  brew, 

80 


Dear  G.  O.  M.,  to  such  as  you ! — 
But  when  /  dwell  upon  your  gift, 
Your  gift  of  gifts,  it  seems  to  lift 
My  thought  from  social  charm  and  wit, 
From  epigram  with  laughter  lit, 
Or  legal  eminence,  or  deep 
Desire  to  have  your  country  reap 
From  high  ideals  and  strong  endeavor 
A  place  within  the  sun  forever.— 
1  Nay,  when  7  think  of  you,  I  feel 
The  dearest  gift  that  you  reveal 
Is  that  you  never  cease  to  lend 
Your  finest  self  to  be  a  friend— 
And  we  who  press  an  eager  claim 
To  call  you  by  that  priceless  name, 
Would  have  you  fully  realize 
Your  friendship  is  the  gift  we  prize. 
Thus,  as  we  drink  our  New  Year's  toast,— 
The  wish,  perchance  we  wish  the  most, 
Is  this, — until  our  journey's  end, 
That  we  may  claim  you  as  our  friend.— 
Your  friendship  is  our  diadem- 
Here's — New  Year's  joy,  dear  G.  O.  M.  :— 


81 


TO     SOTHERN    AND     MARLOWE 

TESTIMONIAL  DINNER,  MAY,  1917 

CLANKED  by  such  comrades,  I  am  loath  to  lift 

*      A  trembling  voice,  as  one  who  is  the  rift 

Within  the  lute;  for  how  can  I  aspire 

To  rival  all  the  past  and  future  fire 

Of  incense  burned  before  this  gifted  pair, — 

Sothern  and  Marlowe — two  beyond  compare! 

August  is  Thomas,  waiting  by  my  side, 
To  prove  that  words  and  wit  are  fast  allied — 
And  if  he  can't  suffice  in  his  short  span 
To  stir  the  house  to  homage — Otto  Kahn  ! 
And  Agnes  Repplier,  she  of  rapier  blade, 
Has  cast  all  other  speakers  in  the  shade— 
Except  that  one  whose  method  no  one  shames, 
So  nobly  conscious  is  he  of  his  Ames ! 

Now  mark  'em  all,  yes,  Edwin  Markham  too, — 
To  think  that  I  should  follow  one  like  you, 
Poet  and  prophet,  master  of  the  flow 

82 


That  makes  a  hero  wield  for  sword,  a  hoe! 
So,  listen,  Friends,  with  kind  and  lenient  ear 
To  these  few  lines  that  I  would  have  you  hear,— 
Lines  only  worth  your  favor  since  they  dwell 
On  two  we  honor, — two  we  love  as  well ! 

First  to  the  man, — though  ladies  should  be  first,— 
Who  but  remembers  how  he  slaked  our  thirst 
For  high  Romance, — when  tried,  and  true,  and  ten 
der, 

He  made  us  all  believe  there  was  a  Zenda, — 
Or,  who  forgets  him,  gay  and  debonair, 
Inimitable,  laughing  Letterblair —  ! 
And  Chumley — echoes  from  a  brilliant  sire 
The  memory  of  hours  that  could  not  tire. 
Magnetic  magic,  joined  to  all  that's  human — 
Of  course  he  knew  "the  way  to  win  a  woman"! 
And  so  he  won  her, — she  who  had  already 
Inflamed  our  brains  and  made  our  hearts  unsteady — 
Who,  by  the  wonder  of  her  low,  deep  voice 
Could  make  an  audience  tremble  or  rejoice, 
Whose  Barbara  Frietchie  thrilled  us  overmuch, 
(Methinks  she'd  sensed  e'en  then  the  Sothern  touch), 


83 


She  who  with  dainty  grace  and  poignant  power, 
Had    made    us    live    "When    Knighthood    was    in 

Flower"! 

He  won  her — and,  as  one,  they  climbed  the  height 
Of    Shakespeare's    "Jocund    Morn"    or    "dreadful 

night" 

And  we,  who  enter  now  a  holy  place, 
Would  bend  with  reverend  knee,  though  lifted  face, 
Before  the  fair  presentments  they  have  made. — 

Here  is  our  tribute, — May  it  then  be  laid 

With  loving  ardor  at  the  Altar-Throne 

Of  two  who  made  great  Shakespeare  all  their  own. — 

This  "wise  young  Judge,"  this  madcap  Rosalind, 

Gay  shrew  untamed,  and  yet  not  half  unkind,— 

Fair  Juliet,  so  bewitching,  her  caress 

Had  left  sweet  Romeo  in  a  sorry  stress — 

Or  Viola,  part  boy,  yet  wholly  woman, 

Capricious,  tender,  petulant  and  human ! 

And  now,  in  turn,  behold,  as  in  a  glass 

The  fawning  Shylock,  or  Malvolio  pass, 

Or,  suddenly,  with  quick  vibrating  pain 

We  sense  the  torture  of  the  noble  Dane, 


84 


Or,  yield  ourselves,  philosophers  as  well, 

To  "melancholy  Jacques'"  potent  spell— 

We  crown  them  with  their  vast  achievement — Rise 

And  honor  those  who  read  the  mysteries 

Of  Avon's  Bard,  and  read  them  all  aright. 

Who  would  not  then  be  Julia's  Satellite, 

Or  Sothern's  slave?     Once  more  the  laurel  bring 

To  her,  the  Queen  of  Queens  "If  he  were  King!" 


85 


HENDERSON    HOUSE 

ON     PUTTING     NEW     WINE     INTO     OLD 
BOTTLES,    OR    THE    TYRANNY 
OF    THINGS 

I  LONG  to  linger  on  the  porch,  I  long  to  lie  and 

dream- 
To  watch    a    flash  of    singing    blue,    athwart    the 

sunlight's  gleam — 

To  close  my  eyes  and  lift  my  face  to  meet  the  sum 
mer  breeze 

That  plays  amid  the  maple-grove  a  thousand  har 
monies. 

But  just  as  I  would  yield  my  soul  to  nature's  potent 

spell,— 
They  come,  and  call  me  from  my  dream — to  smell 

a  horrid  smell ! 
A  drain  gone  wrong, — what  shall  be  done — ?     No 

plumber  for  nine  miles— 
The  telephone  won't  work  at  all,  this  modern  life 

defiles 


86 


The  crimson  of  the  sunset  sky,  the  shadow  of  the 

cloud— 
I  seek  the  porch  once  more,  but  they  are  calling 

fierce  and  loud— 
"The  fire  in  the  northwest  room  won't  burn,  'twill 

only  smoke — 
Come  quickly,  Mrs.  Robinson,  the  lady  there  will 

choke!" 

What  can  be  done?  The  horrid  caps  will  ruin  all 
the  towers, 

But  ladies  must  not  choke,  and  so  we  pray  the 
Heavenly  powers 

That  we  the  mason  can  persuade  to  build  the  chim 
neys  higher, 

And  in  the  meantime  leave  the  guest  to  shiver  with 
out  fire — ! 


87 


Again  I  seek  a  sheltered  spot  and  hope  for  sweet 

repose 

To  bathe  my  senses  in  the  hush  that  comes  at  day 
light's  close- 
But  no ! — They  rush  to  find  me  there,  the  windmill 

won't  go  round, 

The  wind  has  died,  the  engine's  stopped, — in  sullen 
gloom  profound 

I  listen  to  the  dreadful  tale — "one  of  the  bathrooms 

leaks — 
Four  thousand   gallons   lost   last   night — "     I   feel 

resentful  shrieks 
Are  creeping  up  my  throat  and  soon  will  reach  my 

trembling  lips— 
I  want  to  go  to  far-off  isles,  too  far  for  any  ships, — 


88 


Where  there  is  nothing  but  the  beach  and  just  one 

scrub  oak-tree, 
And  plumbing  never  was,  nor  is,  and  never  more 

shall  be,-— 
I  want  to  have  no  modern  joys,  no  "comforts,"  no, 

not  one — 
But  just  to  sink  upon  the  sand  and  swoon  into  the 

sun ! 

When  "  Great-Aunt  Harriet "  ruled  the  Roost,  and 
ruled  it  very  well— 

She  never  had  to  smell  a  drain — there  were  no  drains 
to  smell ! 

She  never  heard  the  windmill  stop  with  sinking  of 
the  heart — 

Or  lost  four  thousand  gallons  of  the  pumping's  bet 
ter  part. 


89 


She  caught  the  rain  in  little  tubs  and  washed  her 

guests  in  sections ! 
We  have  the  tubs,   they  must  have  caused  most 

graceful  genuflections— 
And  by  a  small  coal-stove  each  one    was  warmed 

and  cheered  aright — 
A  candle's  blaze  is  better  far  than  Gasoline's  no 

light- 

Ah !  me,  Ah !  me,  when  nature's  call  would  bid  my 

soul  take  flight, 
When  fleecy  mist  of  amethyst  is  mingled  with  the 

night 
And  some  pale  crescent  moon   adown  her  silvery 

glamour  flings, 
Must  I  still  bow,  a  slave,  before  the  Tyranny  of 

Things—? 


90 


Nay,  for  in  spite  of  drains  and  flues  and  windmills 
gone  astray 

And  lights  that  flicker  and  burn  low  in  weird  and 
woful  way— 

In  spite  of  watery  waste  galore,  from  plumbing  all 
awry 

There  is  no  place  like  Henderson  beneath  the  mid 
night  sky ! 


91 


TO    A    BISHOP 

WHO    SAID    HE    KNEW    NO    FLOWERS 

BUT    THE    IRIS    AND    THE 

BRIDAL-WREATH 

OUR  brilliant  Bishop  says  he  never  knows 
Aught  but  the  Iris  and  the  Bridal-Wreath, 
And  yet  his  words  do  blossom  like  the  breath 
Of  a  most  fragrant  and  redundant  rose, 
Whose  scent  shall  linger  with  us, — for  it  blows 
Its  scattered  petals  while  it  perisheth, 
As  a  fair  day  is  fairest  at  its  close — ! 
May  we  not  broaden,  though,  his  floral  scope 
With  Monk's-Hood  and  with  pious  Mitrewort 
Whose  fragile  beauty  foams  in  distant  dells, 
While  Jacks-in-Pulpits.  on  the  forest  slope, 
In  surreptitious  fashion,  coyly  flirt, 
Writh  careless  clouds  of  Canterbury  -Belles ! 


THE    POETRY    SOCIETY   ANTHOLOGY 

VERSES  WRITTEN  FOR  THE  ANNUAL  DINNER  OF  THE  POETRY  SOCIETY 
OF  AMERICA — WITH  APOLOGIES  TO  EDGAR  LEE  MASTERS,  AUTHOR 
OF  "SPOON  RIVER  ANTHOLOGY" 


EDWARD    J  .     WHEELER 

PRESIDENT    OF    THE   POETRY   SOCIETY    OF   AMERICA 

I   WAS  President — not  of  the  United  States, — 

*   No,  of  something  much  more  unique, 

Much    more   subtle — I    was   the   President   of    the 

Poetry  Society  ! 

Long  ago,  one  of  America's  greatest  statesmen 
Said  he  would  rather  be  right  than  President— 
/  would  much  rather  be  President  than  Wright! 
Anyway,  Wright  could  never  have  been  President— 
He  did  not  have  the  power  of  public  opinion — or 

was  it  Current  Opinion — behind  him— 
And  then,  too,  they  elected  me  President  because 

of    my    judicial    manner    and    my    reserve    of 

speech- 
Wright's  speech  is  torrential, — 
He  is  about  as  reserved  and  as  silent  as  Niagara- 
He  could  never  have  controlled  himself  as  I  did, 
When  the  authors  of  unpublished  poems  were  being 

slaughtered— 

My  calm  was  never  ruffled — My  smile  never  altered, 

95 


No  one  of  those  authors  ever  knew  how  I  felt  about 

.  their  poems — 

And  now  they  never  will  know, 
For  I  am  dead — 
And  though  I  would  not  rather  be  Wright  than 

President — 

Sometimes  I  think  I  might 
Rather  be  dead  than  President  of  the  Poetry  Society ! 


MERLE    ST.    CROIX    WRIGHT 

I   WAS  always  Wright,  and  even  though 
*   I  am  dead,  I  am,  still  Wright- 
It  was  a  habit  of  mine  to  be  Wright, — 
Pre-eminently  right — 

And  even  after  death  one  does  not  get  over  a  life 
long  habit— 

I  never  gave  anybody  time 
To  prove  me  in  the  wrong — 
Suave,  sonorous,  adequate, 
My  words  drowned  patient  protests 
And  swept  them  away 
As  the  scum  is  swept  from  a  river— 
I  was  the  Knower — 
Do  not  mistake  me — 
Not  Noah,  spelt  with  an  "N," 
Although  my  words  were  like  a  flood, 
But  Knower,  spelt  with  a  capital  K— 
One  who  has  knowledge 

Of  all  things  and  who  expresses  it  in  all  ways 
At  all  times — 

97 


Wheeler,  who  lies  near  me  in  this  vault- 
Had  no  such  bottomless  well  of  water  springing- 
And  yet,  the  Poetry  Society  made  him  President- 
Why? 


98 


JESSIE    B.    KITTEN  HOUSE 
SECRETARY 

I   OUGHT  not  to  have  died  and  come  here — 
*   I   was   young  and   strong  until   they   made  me 

Secretary- 
Secretary  of  the  Poetry  Society.— 
It  was  not  the  work  that  killed  me — 
No,  it  was  trying  to  be  fair — 
Fair  about  those  unpublished  poems. 
When  Miles  Dawson  and  Arthur  Guiterman  and 

Corinne  Roosevelt  Robinson  and  Dr.  Smith 
Would  get  up  and  talk  about   "convincing"   and 

"not  convincing" 
And  say  the  poems  "left  them  cold"  and  "really 

were  not  poems  at  all," 
I  could  see  spasms  of  rage 
Chase  over  the  faces  of  the  authors, 
Poor  authors,  unwitting  attendants 
At  their  own  "marche  funebre. " 
And  then,  within  me,  would  overflow 
The  soft  and  soothing  milk  of  human  kindness 

99 


And  all  my  veins  would  fill  with  a  gentle  anaemia 

Of  desire  to  be  fair  to  all  present, 

And  I,  too,  would  rise,  and  say 

That  "I  had  not  thought  much  of  the  poem  they 

were  discussing — 

Till  I  came  to  the  last  line,  and  then  I  did  think 
There  was  punch  in  the  last  line,  real  punch"- 
Well,  later,  I  became  more  anaemic  and  died  and 

came  here. 
I  have  never  been  quite  sure  if  I  died  of  anaemia  or 

punch — 
I  mean  the  punch  we  all  used  to  drink  at  the  Poetry 

Society— 
But  that  was  not  real  punch! 


100 


MILES    M  E  N  A  N  D  E  R    D  A  W  S  O  N 

TREASURER 

I   OFTEN  wonder  what  the  Poetry  Society  does, 
now  that  I  am  dead— 
Perhaps  there  is  no  Poetry  Society— 
Or,  if  there  is  one,  it  can  only  be  a  little  one  that 

survives— 
How  its  members  must  muse  on  my  name,  and  all 

that  it  meant  to  them  ! 

It  is  a  beautiful  name,  and  very  suggestive- 
Miles  !     Miles  ! — and  Menander  ! 
Those  words  seem  to  inspire  a  vision  of  leafy  laby 
rinths 
And  one   who   walked   in   them   slowly   with   other 

sages — 
Confucius — Socrates  and  many  more, — talking  and 

answering  each  other — 
And  then  the  end  of  my  name,  Daivson, 
Perhaps  it  was  the  end  of  my  name  that  made  me 
Yukonic,  like  a  river,  ceaselessly  flowing. 
A  chill,  like  the  end  of  my  name- 
Reminiscent  of  cold  countries— 

101 


Would  >  creep  over  the  Poetry  Society 
When  I  addressed  them, 

A  curious  numb  look  would  spread  over  their  faces, 
As  if  they  were  snowed  under — 
Perhaps  it  was  my  name  that  did  it — 
The  snow  is  heavy  in  the  Klondike— 
Dawson  City  is  there, — but  Miles  M.  Dawson,  him 
self,  lies  under  other  snowflakes. 


102 


PADRAI C    COLUM 

MINE  are  the  ashes  of  a  valiant  heart, 
It  was  I 

Who  once  disarmed  the  Mighty  Imagiste,  Amy, 
She,  who,  with  fluent  tongue,  did  hypnotize 
The  wordiest  members  of  the  Poetry  Society, 
And  rendered  them  mute,  impotent  and  dumb- 
She  wiped  the  floor  up  with  them— 
One  by  one— 

And  then  I  rose,  and  with  beguiling  brogue, 
And  that  sweet  voice  that  sings  with  Celtic  charm, 
I  laid  her  low— 
I  could  never  have  done  it  if  my  name  had  been 

Patrick— 
But — it  was  Padraic! 


103 


CHARLES    HANSON    TOWNE 

DO  not  like  being  dead  at  all, 
*   I  was  so  fond  of  Manhattan — 
Nobody  ever  knew  of  which  I  was  most  fond — Man 
hattan  or  a  Manhattan — 
Not  even  the  Poetry  Society  knew, 
Though  they  thought  themselves  so  subtle ! — 
Another  thing  they  never  knew  was 
Whether  I  cared  most  for  the   Town  or  just  for 

Towne— 

It  would  have  been  easier  to  find  that  out,  for  some 
times 
I  nearly  gave  it  away — for  it  was  so  plain  to  me 

that 

Towne — Charles  Hanson  Towne — was  the  Town, 
And  the  Town  of  Manhattan  is  the  Earth- 
But  the  Poetry  Society  never  were  quite  sure 
What  I  did  think- 
I  always  kept  them  guessing — 
It  is  easy  to  keep  poets  guessing ! 


104 


A  R T  H  U  R    GUI T  E  R  M  A  N 

I  USED  to  wonder  sometimes  if  they  thought  me 
as  clever  as  I  really  was, 
When  I  criticised  all  the  others 
In  those  far-away  nights  when  we  met  at  the  Na 
tional  Arts  Club. 
I  think  Corinne  Roosevelt  Robinson  knew  I   was 

clever 
Because    I    never    liked    any    of    her    unpublished 

poems — 
I  tried  to  be  lucid  about  it,  but  sometimes  when  I 

was  speaking, 
I  saw  by  the  smile  on  the  faces  of  some  of  the  other 

writers 
That  they  thought  I  had  come  to  a  line  of  theirs 

that  I  really  admired. 
Lucidity  is  a  lost  art, 
And    Poets    are    very    provincial,    unless    they    can 

combine  humor  and  pathos  as  I  can- 
It  is  hard  to  be  funny  after  one  is  dead,  however. 
It  is  lonely  being  funny  after  one  is  dead— 


105 


I  think  I  would  rather  be  at  the  Poetry  Society 

than  dead, — 
At  least  there,  the  joke  is  on  the  other  fellow ! — 

FINIS 


106 


A    PLEA    FOR    THE    "ULTIMATE 
CONSUMER"     IN    LITERATURE 

WHEN  Miss  Burney's  "Evelina" 
In  her  "delicate  distress" 
Leaned  upon  her  stalwart  lover 
Till  her  "fragile  loveliness" 
Filled  him  with  immoderate  ardor— 
This  despite  his  calm  endeavor — 
And  he  murmured  "Lovely  Burden, 
Why,  ah!  why  not  thus  forever?" 
Then  the  "Ultimate  Consumer" 
Knew  the  climax  was  at  hand, 
And  it  did  not  take  unusual 
Subtlety  to  understand ! 

In  the  "Children  of  the  Abbey,"- 
Have  you  ever  read  that  book?— 
There  the  heroine  had  "vapors" 
If  she  ever  undertook 
Anything  at  all  emotional, 
But  the  hero  would  forgive 
107 


While  he  kissed  her  tear  and  called  it 

"Just  a  pearly  fugitive"- 

And  the  "Ultimate  Consumer" 

Almost  felt  himself  unmanned 

By  the  purity  and  pathos 

Which  he,  too,  could  understand ! 

In  our  day  of  modern  Isms 
'Tis  a  very  different  thing, 
For  the  "Ultimate  Consumer" 
Finds  a  circus — a  three-ring — 
If  he  wishes  to  be  cultured, 
And  he  strives  so  very  hard, 
He  must  try  a  dip  in  Ethics, 
He  must  battle  with  a  bard 
Quite  unlike  the  soothing  singer 
Which  the  Eighties  did  demand 
And  the  "Ultimate  Consumer" 
Really  cannot  understand. 


108 


He  must  take  a  dab  at  Science 
Some  time  in  his  busy  day- 
He  must  feed  on  bits  of  faience 
In  a  most  artistic  way,— 
All  the  question  of  the  sexes, 
Intricate  though  it  may  be, 
He  must  solve,  although  it  vexes 
Much  his  innate  modesty; 
Books  on  china,  be  it  crockery 
Or  the  ancient  Manchu-land, — 
How  to  make  a  garden  rockery 
He  must  fully  understand ! 

He  must  bow  to  polyphonic, 
Unpoetic,  parlous  prose 
(And  for  this  he  needs  a  tonic 
Stronger  than  his  nature  knows) — 
He  must  struggle  till  he  catches 
Faintly  at  the  hazy  gist 


109 


Of  the  cults, — in  sudden  snatches, 
Futurist  or  Feminist,— 
He  must  tackle  every  "newness," 
And,  believe  me,  it  takes  sand, 
Till  he  sometimes  feels  discouraged, 
For  he  does  not  understand ! 

He  must  soar  with  Henri  Bergson, 
He  must  sneer  with  Bernard  Shaw, 
He  must  ask  the  Swedish  Ellen 
For  the  key  to  Free-Love  lore, 
He  must  thrill  to  the  dramatic 
"Damaged"  quality  of  "Goods" 
Which  were  better  in  an  attic 
Kept  with  other  poisoned  foods; 
He  must  let  his  lower  feelings 
To  a  flame  be  fiercely  fanned 
Just  to  keep  himself  "eugenic," 
But  how  can  he  understand? 


110 


Ah  !  dear  Authors,  let  me  ask  you, 
I,  the  "Ultimate  Consumer," 
I,  whose  rapid  dissolution 
Borders  on  a  "Russian  Duma," 
Could  you  not, — I  only  ask  you, — 
Be  at  times  more  clarifying, 
Like  a  Shakespeare,  or  a  Sappho, 
Winged  word  with  thought  undying — ? 
Socrates  and  all  the  Sages, 
Prophets  from  a  far-off  land, 
Thunder  down  the  deathless  ages 
Thoughts  we  still  can  understand ! 


Ill 


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MAR  15  1936 

MAR    31t9S 

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U.  C.  BERKELEY 

